As I type this, I'm headed north on I95, and one of many passengers in a van that's transporting our youth group back to Jersey, after a week-long stay at the Wilds, a church camp in NC. I have a lot of time on my hands, to reflect on the week-- the preaching, the fun, and my evil deeds, involving a crock pot..
For months we thought we'd figured out how to go to the camp, and only eat real, organic food for our entire stay. But about a week before the trip, the Wilds said we weren't allowed to cook in our room, nor were we allowed to use a nice large kitchen which was located down the hall. Why? I do not know. It was at this point, I knew the dream was over, and I cancelled my healthy plans.
In the days that followed, I came up with a new plan, because there was NO WAY I was eating processed meat and other mysterious camp foods, for a week. Nor was I gonna sit up against big sweaty men on that non air conditioned dining porch, like happened last year. We decided we would drive 30-ish minutes, into the city of Brevard, when we needed food. And I thought it would be a great idea to pick up some NC pulled pork barbecue to keep in a cooler, in the room, so we could make delicious sandwiches. But we'd need to warm them somehow. So I decided I'd bring along a small, one quart slow cooker. Because technically, I'd be "heating" the sandwiches, not "cooking" in the room.
But as the days passed before our trip, I began to worry. NC pulled pork is doused in a delightful vinegar sauce, and I knew that during the heating process it would become very aromatic, and waft up and down the hallways. Maybe we'd get in big trouble! Or we'd have to gather in the hallway, with everyone else, and pretend to marvel about the mysterious luring aroma. I asked one of my friends, what she thought I should do, and she thought the crock pot sandwiches were a marvelous idea. She said I should plan to eat them early in the week, but have a backup plan with cold deli meats , in case our crock pot operation was shut down. But still, I was haunted by thoughts of the Wilds staff busting into our room, and confiscating my slow cooker. I mean, it's not that I'd be out a lot of money, because I got it years ago at a Walmart, on Black Friday, for just $4. And I have another one at home just like it. But come Thanksgiving, I would need that one for the gravy.
Soon we found ourselves back in the South, and we scarfed down fried chicken and pulled pork all the way across the great state of NC, and also in the upstate of SC. And one of the Jersey kids had to ask for some Tums. I anxiously proceeded with the wild plan to illegally smuggle a crock pot into the Wilds. And on our first full day of camp, I prepared two thick "barbecue" sandwiches, and wrapped them in foil. Then I removed the slow cooker from the bag we'd transported it in. I removed the lid, and much to my horror, there was a small spider inside!
God had put an arachnid in my crock pot.
I should mention at this point, that I have OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder) and a tremendous fear of spiders. I threw away some good Tupperware once, because of an incident like this.
I took a deep breath.
"Steve, we have a big problem." I explained to him how I thought we could save the cooker, as long as he removed the spider without squishing it inside my pot. Drowning it in there was not an option either. (OCD is not logical) So he very carefully removed the spider, and proved to me that no squishing had taken place. But now I was gonna have to cleanse the pot somehow. I'd not even brought detergent or a dishcloth, because I was gonna use foil for cooking- I mean "heating."
We had soap, but we had already used it in the shower, so that was out. (OCD) So then Steve suggested shampoo. The shampoo had not been in any public showers before, so it was "okay." (OCD) I squirted some into the crock and swished it around with hot water, but I realized I was gonna need to also scrub it, to feel safe. (OCD) A wash cloth, provided by the Wilds, (think hotel washcloth) was not okay. (OCD) But because I'd remembered that the Wilds only gave us one washcloth to last for the whole week last year, I'd brought some of ours from home, and that would sort of be okay -just this once- since the food would actually be in foil, and was never actually going to touch the crock. (OCD)
So I scrubbed that crock with all of my might-- and my moisturizing shampoo for color treated hair. And then I finally had to accept that it was no longer tainted with terrifying spider germs. (OCD)
In the end, we had some amazing sandwiches, and I'd been reminded that rebellion is not the answer when a camp won't let you have anything decent to eat. It was in love, that God sent me a spider. Next year, my conscience might have been seared, and I'd have been lugging in my big, fancy toaster oven, fully intending to "cook" something.
Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.
*Disclaimer- I do not believe it's healthy to cook with aluminum foil, but I will do it in a traveling situation, if needed. I'm saying this so health foodies don't attack me. Because they scare me.
Monday, July 22, 2013
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
The Mooned Pie
Each year, when Summer vacation arrives, I find myself overwhelmed with a sense of dread and concern, not knowing if this will be the year my kids will actually kill each other, or if I will end up in jail, because of some stress-induced psychological breakdown, followed by a wild, outrageous crime spree. And people would be whispering, "I always knew something wasn't right with her."
Don't get me wrong, I adore the kids. But one can only endure so many episodes of "America's Funniest Home Videos," break up so many arguments, and rescue the cat so many times. And they eat all of our food.
Okay, so I'm exaggerating a little. It's not THAT bad. And this year, it's seemed strangely easier. It's been mostly quiet, and everyone's been getting along. I have been assuming it's the onset of maturity.
But then tonight happened.
It's well understood in our home, that I won't buy highly processed foods. So when junk food does happen to show up, there's a lot of excitement. The other day, Steve came home with a giant box of Moon Pies, because we were going on vacation, and that means the rules get bent.
Upon returning from a few days of camping, someone noticed that some of those delicious Moon Pies remained. I managed to hold everyone off, until after dinner, but then they just started grabbing the last marshmallowy pies, like a pack of ravenous animals. Steve had one, Noah had one, and Elizabeth hid one in her room so it would exist when the time came that she was ready for it. I was planning to hide one too, but the box was empty by the time it reached me. Those jerks. And I'm telling you, there is more food secretly concealed inside this house, than there are hidden bones in a happy dog's backyard. Not only do Elizabeth and I hide all of our snacks, I'm often asked to hide things for other people. I can't even keep it all straight!
Within minutes of the Moon Pie grabbings, Elizabeth, who is 16 years old, was walking around with a recently acquired stuffed animal. It is my understanding, that moments later, Noah wished to hold, touch, or take the stuffed animal. She refused, and even took the toy into the bathroom with her, so he couldn't lay one finger on it. It was at this time, that Noah slipped into her room, pulled her covers back, and victimized her sheets with a naked butt wiggle. And during this process, she emerged from the bathroom, and discovered the debacle that was taking place. Then there was running and screaming and violence, and whatnot.
It wasn't until she returned to her room to strip the sheets off the bed for a good laundering, that she made the startling, disappointing discovery-- the last moon pie, that she'd hidden in her bed, was now a sad part of the "butt imprint" that Noah had left behind. You can't undo that kind of damage. Though it was still inside the plastic, it was forever tainted by naked butt osmosis. She ran into the kitchen, where Steve and I sat, enjoying a peaceful conversation, and plopped the contaminated Moon Pie onto the middle of my kitchen table, and told of the tragic demise of the last remaining processed baked good.
It was then that Steve responded by simply saying, "Well.. now it's a legitimate MOON PIE."
Don't get me wrong, I adore the kids. But one can only endure so many episodes of "America's Funniest Home Videos," break up so many arguments, and rescue the cat so many times. And they eat all of our food.
Okay, so I'm exaggerating a little. It's not THAT bad. And this year, it's seemed strangely easier. It's been mostly quiet, and everyone's been getting along. I have been assuming it's the onset of maturity.
But then tonight happened.
It's well understood in our home, that I won't buy highly processed foods. So when junk food does happen to show up, there's a lot of excitement. The other day, Steve came home with a giant box of Moon Pies, because we were going on vacation, and that means the rules get bent.
Upon returning from a few days of camping, someone noticed that some of those delicious Moon Pies remained. I managed to hold everyone off, until after dinner, but then they just started grabbing the last marshmallowy pies, like a pack of ravenous animals. Steve had one, Noah had one, and Elizabeth hid one in her room so it would exist when the time came that she was ready for it. I was planning to hide one too, but the box was empty by the time it reached me. Those jerks. And I'm telling you, there is more food secretly concealed inside this house, than there are hidden bones in a happy dog's backyard. Not only do Elizabeth and I hide all of our snacks, I'm often asked to hide things for other people. I can't even keep it all straight!
Within minutes of the Moon Pie grabbings, Elizabeth, who is 16 years old, was walking around with a recently acquired stuffed animal. It is my understanding, that moments later, Noah wished to hold, touch, or take the stuffed animal. She refused, and even took the toy into the bathroom with her, so he couldn't lay one finger on it. It was at this time, that Noah slipped into her room, pulled her covers back, and victimized her sheets with a naked butt wiggle. And during this process, she emerged from the bathroom, and discovered the debacle that was taking place. Then there was running and screaming and violence, and whatnot.
It wasn't until she returned to her room to strip the sheets off the bed for a good laundering, that she made the startling, disappointing discovery-- the last moon pie, that she'd hidden in her bed, was now a sad part of the "butt imprint" that Noah had left behind. You can't undo that kind of damage. Though it was still inside the plastic, it was forever tainted by naked butt osmosis. She ran into the kitchen, where Steve and I sat, enjoying a peaceful conversation, and plopped the contaminated Moon Pie onto the middle of my kitchen table, and told of the tragic demise of the last remaining processed baked good.
It was then that Steve responded by simply saying, "Well.. now it's a legitimate MOON PIE."
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